A World Apart
by netangel182
Summary: Ingrid is a girl barely getting by on the streets. When chance leads Spot to her, he can't help but try to help. But when she refuses to accept his aid, he can't get her out of his head.
1. Default Chapter

Ok, so here is the deal. I haven't written a fan fiction story in months and I was beginning to go through withdrawl, so I kinda threw this one together. I'm writing on the fly here and I have no idea where it is headed, but I'm sure that it will take on a life of it's own once I get further into it. If you have any comments or suggestions, feel free to let me know.  
  
Disclaimer: Ah yes, the necessary evil once more. As you can assume, I do not own the newsies. If I did I would be writing movie scripts for then rather than fan fiction. Nonetheless, here is my story. Please enjoy!  
  
FYI: I am hoping that the Norwegian in here is translated correctly, my skills in that language are meager to say the least, so if you know better than I, please feel free to correct me. 


	2. Chapter 1

"Aye, you can't sleep here!"  
  
Ingrid woke with a start as a club came clashing down on the bench beside her head. She stared in sleepy confusion at the blue blob that hovered over her. Wiping her eyes, she quickly realized that it was actually a police officer.  
  
"You understand me girl?"  
  
She nodded and began gathering her things. When she stood, a small hand clasped hers. Ingrid glanced down at the young boy standing beside her, his curly blond hair tousled from sleep and a scared look on his face. She gave him an assuring smile and squeezed his hand.  
  
"Alright then, off you go," the officer instructed, turning down the path. "Girls and their babies sleepin in the park. What's the world comin to?"  
  
His last comments were not intended for Ingrid's ears, but she heard them nonetheless. She couldn't help but roll her eyes at his assumption. Glancing down at the little boy, a small smile crept onto her lips.  
  
His blue eyes reflected the dim light that was cast onto the street from the streetlamps. Sometimes she was relieved that he understood very little English, a fact that sheltered him from comments like that of the police officer. Ingrid envied the innocence that this afforded him.  
  
She cast him another quick smile before the reality of the situation at hand sunk in: they had nowhere to sleep. And after dark in New York City, that posed a real problem. Scanning the streets, she spotted a dock sticking out into the East River not far off. There were palettes and boxes piled along the length of the dock which Ingrid concluded would serve well as a cover if necessary. She directed the small boy down the dock to an alcove between some boxes.  
  
"God natt," he said softly before curling up against one of the boxes.  
  
"Søte drømer, Gunnar." She removed the thin cloak from her shoulders and laid it over the boy. She smiled at him sadly and repeated her words in English. "Sweet dreams."  
  
Ingrid barely slept that night. Instead, she sat at the edge of the dock, staring out at the reflection of the moon in the river. When dawn finally came over the eastern horizon, she fished through her pocket for a cigarette. Smiling to herself, she struck a match in the edge of the dock. She took a long drag and chuckled as she exhaled a puff of smoke. Her mother once told her that smoking was unrefined.  
  
"What would she think of us now?" Ingrid wondered aloud, flicking the ash from her cigarette into the river.  
  
Gunnar stirred behind her and she quickly took another drag before tossing the half-smoked cigarette into the water. She preferred that he not see her smoke.  
  
"Damn shame, that's a waste of a perfectly good smoke."  
  
Ingrid nearly fell off the dock when she heard a voice coming from behind her. Spinning quickly, she saw a teenage boy walking down the dock toward her. Through the hazy dawn, she could see the cherry of his cigarette as he took a drag. Exhaling, he leaned on one of the dock supports just above her. The early morning sun lit his face, making his blue eyes sparkle as he grinned down at her.  
  
"Watcha doin down here this early?" he asked as she got to her feet.  
  
"I'm sorry," she replied as she moved to Gunnar, shaking him lightly. "We will be gone in a moment."  
  
The boy eyed her curiously. "Did ya sleep here last night?"  
  
Ingrid took Gunnar's hand and brushed passed the young stranger.  
  
He moved so that he blocked their exit. "Hey now, wait jist a minute. Ain't ya got a place to stay?"  
  
Ingrid easily sidestepped him and pulled a sleepy Gunnar up the dock behind her.  
  
Spot stood a bit dumbfounded at the end of the dock, thumbing his cigarette absently as he watched the mysterious girl disappear into the city. Rubbing his eyes, he turned his attention back to the river. When he walked down to the dock for his morning smoke, the last thing that he expected was to stumble upon a pretty blond.  
  
He took another drag on the cigarette and glanced to where the boy had been sleeping. A flicker of sunlight caught on an object lying forgotten on the dock. Flicking the spent cigarette into the dark water below him, Spot knelt down. Upon further inspection, he saw that it was actually a jack that must have fallen from the young boy's pocket.  
  
Spot turned his gaze back to the river, shaking the jack in his hand like a dice. For a moment, he considered tossing it into the river, but an image of the young boy flashing in his mind made him think better of it.  
  
"Spot, gotta get a move on!"  
  
Spot glanced up at the shore. Striker, his right hand man, stood waiting with a few other boys. Taking a deep breath, Spot scanned the river once more, settling his gaze finally on the jack in his hand.  
  
"Spot!" Striker called, growing impatient.  
  
Without giving it too much thought, Spot shoved the jack into his pocket with his shooting marbles. "I'm comin!" 


	3. Chapter 2

The city was waking up as Ingrid led Gunnar through the streets. Her stomach growled in protest as she passed a bakery, the faint smell of biscuits filling the air. With her free hand, she reached into her pockets. Glancing down, she inspected their meager contents. She gave a slight groan. In her hand she held only three matches and a bit of lint.  
  
"A lot of good that will do," she murmured, pushing them back into her pocket. "Matches are not going to buy us food."  
  
Gunnar glanced up at her, furrowing his brow. She shook her head, not having the heart to translate.  
  
As they walked by a fruit cart, Ingrid quickly scanned the street. The owner had his back turned, so she stealthily grabbed an apple and hid it under her cloak. She smiled to herself as they passed, listening to the owner's whistling as he returned his attention to the cart, completely oblivious to the missing fruit.  
  
"Extra, Extra--" Spot stopped mid-headline when he saw the blond from the docks sitting on a bench a few blocks off, handing the young boy slices of apple. He kept a safe distance as if she were a wild animal that would flee if she spotted him.  
  
She pulled her loose curls back with a small strip of cloth. He couldn't blame her, the mid-morning heat was beginning to beat down on the streets and the heat was becoming unbearable.  
  
Spot watched as she handed the young boy another slice of apple. The little boy smiled, taking the slice eagerly. His feet didn't reach the ground and he kicked them carelessly as he munched on the apple. Fingering the jack in his pocket, Spot cracked a smile.  
  
"Spot, we swimming this afternoon?"  
  
Spot was completely oblivious to Striker's presence until a hand came down on his shoulder. "Huh?"  
  
"Swimmin?"  
  
"Uh, yeah sure." Spot kept his eye on the mysterious girl, who was playfully tickling her young companion.  
  
"Alright, Spotty boy," Striker teased, "what's snaggin yer attention?"  
  
Spot glared at his friend. "Watch yourself, boyo. You call me that again you'll meet the business end of my cane."  
  
Striker smirked, knowing full well that Spot's threat was only half- hearted. Spot's attention once again turned up the street. Striker followed his line of sight until his eyes landed on a slender blond. "Well that's a distraction if I have ever seen one."  
  
Spot shot his friend a grin, raising his eyebrows.  
  
"Come on Romeo," Striker said, pulling at Spot's shoulder. "I think that you need to cool off."  
  
Taking one last glance at the pair on the bench, Spot played with the jack in his pocket. Laughing in spite of himself, he turned and followed Striker toward the docks.  
  
As dusk began to fall on the city, Ingrid once again tensed. They were no closer to finding a safe place to sleep and Gunnar was lagging sleepily behind her. She bit her lip nervously as they passed a dark alley. Through a gap in the buildings, she caught sight of the river. She sighed and looked down at the droopy eyed boy beside her. Sleeping in the same place more than one night was not a good idea, but she couldn't think of an alternative before darkness fell on the city.  
  
Against her better judgment, she led Gunnar down the dock and settled him into the hollow where he had slept the night before.  
  
"Will you tell me a story, Ingrid?" Gunnar asked quietly.  
  
Ingrid settled with her back to one of the pillars. She slowly began a tale filled with trolls and Vikings. 


	4. Chapter 3

Spot woke as the sun began to creep into the bunkroom. Unable to fall back into a peaceful sleep, he rose quietly. As he grabbed his slingshot and cigarettes from the table beside the bunk, Striker shifted on the top bunk, murmuring something incoherent. Spot smirked slightly as he started for the door. One could only deduce from his lude comments that Striker's dream involved his girl of the week.  
  
Ingrid awoke to a splash of water on her leg. She opened her eyes to see Gunnar standing on the edge of the dock, tossing pebbles into the river.  
  
"What are you doing?" she asked in a groggy voice, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.  
  
He smiled brightly at her. "Scaring the fish."  
  
Ingrid couldn't help returning his smile as she settled back against the pillar. "Well sit down. I am too tired to fish you out of the river."  
  
As soon as he stepped out into the sunlight, Spot was consumed by a blanket of humidity. He groaned. "It's gonna be an unbearable day."  
  
Seeking solace from the heat, he walked aimlessly toward the river. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a young boy sitting on the end of the dock. A broad smile crossed Spot's lips as he scanned the dock, his eyes landing on the boy's companion.  
  
With a slight spring in his step, he made his way down the dock. As he neared the pair, he could hear them talking in hushed voiced. It took him a moment to realize that they were not speaking English.  
  
Ingrid jumped when she heard footsteps on the dock behind her. She spun around to see the boy from the previous morning standing a few feet behind them. Reaching for Gunnar's hand, she prepared to make a quick exit.  
  
"Wait, please," he said calmly, extending a tentative hand. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."  
  
She eyed him with speculation for a moment, but the soft look in his eyes mad her relax slightly.  
  
Spot knelt down in front of Gunnar, who hid timidly behind Ingrid's dusty skirt. Reaching into his pocket, Spot produced the jack that he had found earlier. "I think that you lost this, kid."  
  
Ingrid smiled, touched by the stranger's gesture. Gunnar started up at her, confusion evident on his face. She quickly translated and Gunnar grabbed the jack with enthusiasm.  
  
Spot stood, taking the girl in with a confused look.  
  
"He does not understand you," she explained, motioning toward the boy, who was playing with the returned jack a few feet away.  
  
"Why's that?" Spot asked, digging into his pockets.  
  
Ingrid smiled. "He does not understand English."  
  
"I assumed as much," Spot said with a smile. "I meant-"  
  
"I know what you meant," Ingrid shot back, enjoying the playful banter.  
  
"Ingrid," Gunnar called. "I am hungry."  
  
She nodded to him and turned back toward Spot, who was expectantly waiting for a translation.  
  
"He's hungry," she said off handedly.  
  
"German?" Spot asked, wagering a guess at the language.  
  
"Norwegian," she corrected before gathering her things. "Now if you'll excuse us."  
  
She took Gunnar's hand and led him up to the shore.  
  
"Ingrid, is it?" Spot called, following them closely. When she nodded, he continued. "Lemme buy you breakfast."  
  
She shot him a grin. "No thank you. We are just fine on our own."  
  
"I'm sure ya are," Spot mumbled as she walked away.  
  
Ingrid led Gunnar around the streets of Brooklyn, searching for an easy steal. Her hand was only inches from a loaf of bread when a voice made her freeze.  
  
"I wouldn't do that if I was you."  
  
She spun around to see the boy from the docks leaning against the brick building behind her. "And why is that?"  
  
"Because the bulls are standin right over there." He smirked as her hand fell down at her side. "Willin to reconsider my offer?"  
  
"Should you not be selling newspapers?" she asked, taking Gunnar's hand to keep him from darting down the street after a passing cart.  
  
"I'm done."  
  
Ingrid cringed as her stomach grumbled as if on cue.  
  
"Is dat a yes?" he asked, trying his best to hold back a smile.  
  
She groaned. "Fine."  
  
Spot nodded triumphantly.  
  
"Just one more thing," she spoke up as Spot directed them toward a small diner a few blocks down the street. "You know my name and I do not know yours."  
  
He turned with a smile on his face. "I'm Caleb."  
  
As soon as the words left his mouth, Spot's entire body went numb. Caleb? He hadn't been called that in years, let alone introduced himself that way. They reached the diner and he held the door open for them.  
  
"What am I doin?" he mumbled to himself before following. 


	5. Chapter 4

Gunnar tapped Ingrid on the shoulder and whispered something in her ear. She chuckled lightly and turned her attention to Spot. "He wants to thank you for finding his jack."  
  
Spot bit his lip, turning to Ingrid. "How do you say you're welcome?"  
  
"De er velkommen," she offered.  
  
"Der velkmonen," Spot attempted, lifting Gunnar into his chair.  
  
Ingrid smiled at his mispronunciation. "Close enough."  
  
He regarded her with a smile before ordering them all some food.  
  
"Are you from Norway then?" he asked as they waited for their food to arrive.  
  
She nodded, keeping a watchful eye on Gunnar who had slipped out of his chair and was playing contently a few feet away.  
  
"So where did ya learn English?"  
  
She turned her gaze back to Spot. "I attended boarding school in London."  
  
Spot sighed lightly, a bit frustrated by her reluctant answers. But then again, who was he to chide her for holding back her past. He did it every day.  
  
"Boarding school, huh?" he asked, his tone quickly taking on a hint of humor.  
  
"Is that so hard to believe?" she asked, her eyes dancing with unspoken laughter.  
  
Spot smirked. "Nah, not at all."  
  
Ingrid laughed lightly. "Good answer."  
  
He watched her laugh, hypnotized by her eyes. When their food came, he forced himself to aver his eyes.  
  
When their food arrived, Ingrid easily lifted Gunnar off of the floor and placed him in the seat. She glanced up to see Spot staring at them with curiosity. Lowering her eyes, she returned to her seat and began to eat slowly. She could feel his eyes on her as she took a bite of oatmeal.  
  
"He is not my son," she said softly, her eyes concentrated on her food.  
  
Spot waited until she finally looked up at him and then nodded. They finished their food in relative silence, both unsure of how to continue the conversation.  
  
"Well, thank you for lunch, Caleb," Ingrid said as he opened the door for her.  
  
"Der velkommen," he replied, earning himself a grin from her.  
  
"You are improving."  
  
He smirked. "I am a quick study."  
  
They stood in silence for a moment, giving Ingrid a chance to study him more closely. His eyes, which seemed blue when they first met, now shone a clear grey. Though he seemed scrawny, further inspection revealed defined muscles below the sleeves rolled up his arm.  
  
"Ey, buddy boy!"  
  
When Ingrid saw a larger, well built newsie coming toward them, she took it as an opportunity to make a quick exit. "It was nice meeting you, Caleb. Good day to you."  
  
She took Gunnar's hand and led him passed the strange newsie quickly.  
  
"Ingrid, wait!"  
  
She turned and waved, flashing him a bright smile before vanishing around the corner of a nearby building.  
  
"Very nice, Spot," Striker commented, his eyes following Ingrid until she was out of sight.  
  
"Ya need somethin, Striker?" Spot asked, a bit irritated by the interruption.  
  
"Just curious how you're passin your time." Striker smiled and pulled out a cigarette. "I approve, although I'd loose da kid."  
  
For some reason, Striker's last comment bothered him. He rolled his eyes and started down the street. "Come on, let's go swimmin." 


	6. Chapter 5

By mid-afternoon, the heat on the streets was all consuming. Ingrid led Gunnar lazily through Brooklyn, headed nowhere in particular. She soon found herself facing the Brooklyn Bridge, leading into Manhattan. She smiled to herself, thinking about the cooling shade of Central Park.  
  
They trudged through the heat a few more blocks before coming on the shady haven of trees hidden among the buildings of Manhattan. Finding a shady spot beside a large oak tree, Ingrid collapsed on to the cool grass. Gunnar wandered off a few feet, playing contently in the fountain with a few other children. She watched him idly, trying in vain to keep her eyes open.  
  
She awoke sometime later. Whether she had been asleep for minutes or hours, she was not sure. Gunnar lay beside her, staring up at the clear blue sky through the leaves of the oak tree.  
  
"Ready to start working?" she asked, the Norwegian rolling off her tongue easily.  
  
In the months since Ingrid took over care of Gunnar, she had devoted her afternoons to teaching him English. However, without the proper materials, the process was very slow moving.  
  
As dusk began to fall in the park, Gunnar began to dose off in the soft grass. Not having the heart to wake him, she decided to spend the night in the park. Leaning back against the trunk of the old oak tree, she fell into a weary sleep.  
  
"Striker!" Spot called across the bunkroom. "Commere will ya?"  
  
The boy in question set down the paper that he was scanning idly and stalked across the room. "Whatta ya need?"  
  
"Keep and eye on the boys tonight, will ya?" Spot pulled out the extra money which he stored in his pillowcase, shoving the coins into his pocket.  
  
"Ya goin to find that girl?" Striker asked, dropping onto Spot's empty bed.  
  
Spot tossed the pillow teasingly at Striker, who caught it easily. Spot smirked. "I ran into Race on his way home from Sheepshead. He invited me to play a few hands of pokah."  
  
Spot regarded his friend with curiosity as his body tensed at the mention of one of the Manhattan boys. For reasons unknown to him, Striker never seemed to like those boys too much.  
  
"Well, good luck, buddy boy," Striker said, relaxing a bit as he rose from the bunk. "I'll keep an eye on things round here."  
  
Spot placed his cap over his sandy brown hair. "I'll be back in da mornin."  
  
After he crossed the bridge into Manhattan, Spot headed for a shortcut through the park. He stopped short when he caught sight of two sleeping forms in the grass just beside the trail. As he tentatively drew nearer to them, he realized that it was in fact Gunnar and Ingrid.  
  
Scanning the area for any sign of danger, Spot knelt beside Ingrid. For a moment, she watched her sleep, loose blond curls handing across her angelically sleeping face. After a moment, he shook her lightly.  
  
Ingrid woke with a start. Her heart was racing as she glanced up at a blurry figure. As her eyes adjusted, she let out a breath that she had been unconsciously holding. She found herself staring up into a familiar pair of grey eyes. "Caleb?"  
  
Spot smiled as he heard his name roll off her tongue, her slight accent giving it a tone that he had never heard before. Glancing down at Gunnar, he brought a finger to his lips and led her to a bench a few feet down the path.  
  
Pulling a cigarette from his pocket, Spot struck a match on the edge of the bench. Taking a long drag, he offered it to her.  
  
Ingrid willingly took the cigarette from him, glancing over at Gunnar before she brought it to her lips.  
  
"I was right about you the other day, wasn't I?" he said after a few minutes of silence. "You two's got no place to sleep."  
  
She nervously thumbed the cigarette in her hand, unwilling to meet his eyes.  
  
"Look, it ain't no problem," Spot assured, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Me and the newsies can give you a place to stay, take care of ya til-"  
  
Ingrid shrugged off his hand and stood in front of the bench. "We do not need your help."  
  
"Come now, don't be like that. We'se pretty good at takin care of people."  
  
Her eyes clouded over in agitation. "Keep your pity."  
  
Ingrid lifted a sleepy Gunnar onto her hip easily and stalked out of sight. Spot groaned, slouching down on the bench.  
  
"Hey Spot, how's life treatin ya?" Jack called across the crowded, noisy bunkroom.  
  
In spite of his encounter with Ingrid, Spot cracked a grin. Whenever he came to Manhattan, he felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. There he had no responsibilities and all the boys looked up to him in awe. Jack was more lenient with his boys, giving them a life filled with laughter and joking. In Brooklyn, things were different. When he inherited the leadership years earlier, the Brooklyn newsies had a reputation that he promised to uphold. Thus was born the "great" Spot Conlon, a rough, heartless leader.  
  
Jack spit into his hand and extended it to Spot, who returned the gesture.  
  
"It's been an interesting few days. Jacky boy."  
  
Jack motioned to a chair beside Race at a table where a poker game had already begun. "Sit down and take a load off."  
  
"Ya got an extra bunk for me tonight, Jack?" Spot asked hours later, his pockets heavier with the Manhattan boy's hard earned money.  
  
"Ya not goin back to be with your boys?"  
  
"Nah, Striker's got it handled."  
  
Jack narrowed his eyes. "Ya sure that's a good idea?"  
  
"I trust him, Jack," Spot replied with a shrug. "He takes good care of me boys when I'm out."  
  
Jack shook his head, motioning to the empty bunk below his before lifting himself into bed. "Night, Spot."  
  
"Night."  
  
Spot lay in bed awake, staring up at the springs bowing under Jack's weight. Jack's reaction to the mention of Striker's name was not surprising. Their distaste seemed to be mutual. For months, Spot had been playing referee between his two friends. Trying to hold up the middle ground between them was beginning to put a strain on his nerves.  
  
Agitated by the thoughts keeping him from sleep, Spot fished into his pocket for a cigarette, only to come up empty handed. "Damn."  
  
Then he remembered his last cigarette resting between Ingrid's slender fingers. He ran a hand through his hair, letting it rest under his head on the pillow.  
  
He had successfully blocked her out of his mind all evening as he played poker, but now, lying in bed with the others asleep, there was no chance for distraction.  
  
Why had she refused his help? That had never happened before. Jack and his boys brought back girls who needed help all the time. What made this one any different? Then he thought of Gunnar hovering over his pancakes that morning, his short blond curls falling over his forehead. Was that what made the difference, a little boy who needed her?  
  
She said that they didn't need his pity, but had it been pity? He couldn't answer that question, any more than he could the others. Yes, he felt sorry for them, sleeping on a hard dock when he had a soft bunk. But was it out of pity that he offered his help?  
  
A sinking feeling in his stomach told him otherwise. The real reason for his offer had more to do with the warm feeling which spread through is body whenever he saw her. In her company, all of his cares melted away. The troubles of his boys and the uneasy ground between Jack and Striker faded into the background. All that he could concentrate on was making her laugh to see the dancing of her eyes.  
  
He closed his eyes, trying to shake the thoughts from his head so that he could get some sleep.  
  
Ingrid lay on the grass, staring up at the stars fading into morning light. It seemed as though she never got much sleep anymore. Rubbing her burning eyes, she sighed. After her confrontation with Caleb, she had found a more secluded part of the park in which to pass the night. For the hundredth time in a matter of hours, she replayed the argument in her head.  
  
What made him think that he could save them? Better yet, what made him think that they needed saving? Her father once told her that pity was saved for the weak and helpless. She was neither and resented the implication that she was incapable of caring for herself and Gunnar. Refusing to resign herself to a life based on the pity bestowed by other, she decided that they would have to be more careful with whom they associated.  
  
For some reason, this last thought made her heart sink slightly. Caleb had been the first person that she had really spoken with in months, besides Gunnar of course. Before that afternoon, she had not smiled genuinely in months.  
  
Determined to push those thoughts from her mind, Ingrid concentrated instead on a strategy to steer clear of Caleb and the other newsies. 


	7. Chapter 6

Spot leaned his head against the wall beside the window, the cool November air tingling on his face. His eyes absently scanned the empty docks below. Striker pulled up a chair beside him, startling the back. Without saying a word, he offered Spot a cigarette.  
  
Spot jumped slightly when he noticed his friend's presence, but nodded absently in acceptance.  
  
Striker lit a match and lit both of their cigarettes. "Bit jumpy, ain't ya?"  
  
Spot shrugged and inhaled a smooth stream of smoke. When he exhaled, he watched it mix with the cold air, dancing against the dark sky.  
  
"Alright, what's been with you the last few months, buddy boy?"  
  
Shrugging off the question, Spot snuffed the barely smoked cigarette on the windowsill. "I'm goin to bed."  
  
Striker stared at the wasted cigarette and shook his head. He quickly grabbed Spot's arm as he passed by. "Spot—"  
  
Spot pulled his arm free, regarding Striker with a cold glare. When he saw the genuine concern in his friend's chocolaty brown eyes, Spot's expression softened. "Don worry bout it, boyo."  
  
As he settled into his bunk, Spot couldn't get Striker's question out of his head. What was with him? When he closed his eyes, an image flashed in his mind and he suddenly knew the answer. Ingrid. He forced his eyes open again, hoping to rid himself of the mental picture. Staring up at the springs of Striker's bunk above him, he sighed. There was no stopping his mind once the gears began turning.  
  
Spot had known a fair number of girls in his life, many more attractive and approachable than Ingrid, so why was it that she constantly occupied his thoughts?  
  
"She's just a girl," he mumbled in frustration, rolling over so that he could see out the window. Small snowflakes had begun to fall, bringing an early winter to Brooklyn. He made a mental note to add another layer under his jacket before he started selling the next morning, then fell into an uneasy sleep.  
  
Ingrid shivered, pulling her arms tighter around herself, she leaned her back against the side of the alley. Her thin cloak had been wrapped around Gunnar's sleeping form to keep him warm, and her thin cotton shirt was doing little to bar out the cold wind. At that moment, she would have given just about anything for the warm smoke of a cigarette.  
  
A delicate snowflake softly landed on her cheek. She closed her eyes tightly and leaned her head back against the building. She had always known that once winter fell on the city, their days on the street were numbered. She just hadn't expected the time to come so quickly.  
  
By the time that the sun rose the next morning, Ingrid's hands were shaking uncontrollably and her toes were numb inside her boots. She woke Gunnar quickly and the two of them headed down the street. A few blocks away, they found a burning barrel with a few factory workers standing around it. Ingrid sidled up to the barrel, warming her hands above the welcoming flames.  
  
"Jeg er sulten," Gunnar whined beside her.  
  
Ingrid shot him a glance. "English, Gunnar."  
  
"I am hungry," he repeated in choppy English.  
  
"Much better." She smiled down at him with pride. After months of work, Gunnar's English had greatly improved. He was now capable of understanding and holding conversation. Ingrid was relieved to be spared from translating everything that was happening around them.  
  
With Gunnar close in toe, she started toward the main street in search of something to eat. Unfortunately, the cold air had forced all of the street vendors indoors, and finding food was sure to be more difficult. Trying not to get discouraged, she led Gunnar through the busying streets in search of an easy steal.  
  
Her entire body froze when she spotted Caleb leaning against the lamp post on the corner, absently smoking a cigarette. Determined to slip away without being seen, she pulled her cloak higher around her neck. She reached for Gunnar's hand, and groaned when she realized that he had also seen Caleb and had started in his direction.  
  
Spot nearly dropped his cigarette when she saw a small boy running toward him. He blinked quickly for fear that his eyes were playing tricks on him. He smiled when his eyes opened and Gunnar was still advancing.  
  
He knelt in the snow so that he was at eye level with the little boy. "Well, hello there."  
  
"Hello."  
  
Spot's eyes grew wide when Gunnar responded in English. "Where's Ingrid?"  
  
Gunnar pointed behind him, up the block. "Right there."  
  
Spot followed with his eyes until he caught sight of Ingrid standing sheepishly on the crowded sidewalk. A broad smile pulled at his lips as he watched the cool breeze blow through her loose blond curls. He stood numbly, his eyes locking with hers. The sparkle of laughter that had lit up her eyes months earlier was gone, replaced with worry and wear beyond her years. His heart went out to her and his smile faded.  
  
She slowly began to draw closer to him, trying to hide the desperation in her eyes with a thin smile. Spot took a deep breath and stood his full height, tossing his cigarette into the snow beside him.  
  
"Hey," he said in a raspy voice, his throat suddenly dry.  
  
She nodded at him politely. "Hello." 


	8. Chapter 7

Spot watched Ingrid's hand shake as she reached out to pull Gunnar closer to her. It was only then that he noticed that her skin was hauntingly pale, a slight bluish tint lining her lips. Just looking at her sent a chill down his spine.  
  
"Let me buy you lunch," he offered, trying to find an excuse to get her into a warm building.  
  
The smart thing to do was decline his offer. Ingrid knew that, but the temptation of a hot meal and shelter from the cold was irresistible. She reluctantly agreed and followed the boys to the same dinner they had eaten in that summer.  
  
"Are ya plannin on sleepin in da streets all winter?" Spot asked bluntly after they took a seat near the burning stove.  
  
Ingrid fought to keep her jaw from dropping. She was about to respond when she saw Gunnar staring at her expectantly. She grabbed Spot by the arm and pulled him away from the table.  
  
"Not that it is any of your business," she responded in a low voice, "but we have no alternative."  
  
"My offer still stands," he said softly, unconsciously resting a hand on her forearm. "Come live at da lodging house. It ain't much, but you'd at least have a roof over ya head."  
  
Her features hardened and she started to walk away. "I already told you that we do not need your pity."  
  
"Wait, please." He tightened his grip on her arm enough to pull her gently back to him. "This ain't pity, its experience. I've spent a winter on these streets, an' I'll tell ya what, you two ain't got what it takes to survive. Don't let your pride send you to your grave."  
  
With a glare, she pulled herself free from his grasp and stormed out of the dinner, pulling Gunnar along behind her. Spot hung his head as he heard the door slam behind them.  
  
"That went well," he murmured to himself before he headed back out onto the street.  
  
Ingrid's stomach grumbled as she tried to find a comfortable position on the cold metal bench. Since running out of the dinner that morning, she had only managed to steal one biscuit, which she immediately gave to Gunnar. Between her hunger and the discomfort of the cold, it was clear that sleep was impossible.  
  
Caleb's last words kept running through her mind. Was it really her pride keeping them in the cold? She watched Gunnar shift beside her, pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders. Watching him slip back into sleep, she sighed. Surely Gunnar understood the weight of the situation at hand, yet he never complained.  
  
Suddenly a pang of guilt hit her. She owed him more than this; more than a life on the streets eating stolen food. Biting her lower lip, she reconsidered Caleb's offer. She decided that until they got back on their feet, it was the only alternative for survival.  
  
Before she could change her mind, she lifted Gunnar onto her hip. She started blindly through the streets, unsure of exactly where she was headed. Somehow, her feet led her toward the docks where she had first met Caleb.  
  
Just up the street, her eye caught on a sign hanging from the side of a worn building. Newsboys Lodging house. Taking a calming breath, she walked up and knocked on the door.  
  
A small boy, seemingly only a few years older than Gunnar, pulled the door open. "Whatta ya want?"  
  
Ingrid was taken aback by the harshness of his voice. "I... uh... I am looking for Caleb."  
  
"Ain't nobody here named Caleb," the boy shot back, moving to slam the door.  
  
Before the latch clicked, a large hand caught the door and pulled it open. Ingrid recognized the newly arrived newsie as Caleb's friend from outside the dinner. His well built frame towered over Ingrid, shaking her confidence slightly. His chocolaty brown eyes sparkled when he scanner her body.  
  
"Munchkin, go get Spot."  
  
The young newsie shot him a questioning glance. "Aw come on, Striker--"  
  
"Do as you're told," Striker replied coolly, pushing him toward the stairs. He then turned back to Ingrid, who still stood on the cold stoop. "Well ya might as well come in."  
  
She moved awkwardly into the room filled with Brooklyn newsboys. Shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny of their eyes, Ingrid repositioned Gunnar on her hip.  
  
"Spot?"  
  
Groaning, Spot lifted his head off the pillow. "I thought I told ya boys ta leave me alone."  
  
"Striker sent me," Munchkin said shyly, taking a tentative step into the room.  
  
"its jist gonna have ta wait til tomorrow, Munchkin. I'm tryin ta—"  
  
"There's a girl downstairs," Munchkin interrupted, cowering slightly as he waited for Spot's reaction.  
  
Spot shot up in bed, hitting his head on Striker's bunk in the process. Rubbing his forehead, he bolted passed the young newsie and down the stairs. His eyes widened when he saw Ingrid standing in the middle of the room with Gunnar sleeping on her shoulder.  
  
When he realized that the other boys were staring at him, he quickly masked his shock and hardened his features. "Boys, why don't ya clear out an let us talk."  
  
The boys were too curious to move until Striker shooed them out. "You heard him, beat it."  
  
Striker turned back to the pair, a triumphant smile on his face. Spot gave Striker a direct look. "You too, boyo."  
  
Striker stared at his friend in shock. He had never been excluded from any of the events in Spot's life, and he resented the suggestion. Frustrated, he stalked out of the front door, slamming it behind him.  
  
With the room now empty, Spot let a broad smile play across his lips. "You changed your mind?"  
  
"I am here for Gunnar," she said coolly, fighting to keep her voice steady.  
  
Spot saw the pain in her eyes as she stood before him. It was obvious that asking for help was not in her nature and the action was extremely difficult for her. "Fair enough. Common, I'll show ya to an empty bunk."  
  
Ingrid began to climb the stairs behind him, but found it difficult to carry Gunnar and not trip on her skirt. Noticing that she had fallen behind, he retraced his steps and lifted Gunnar easily from her arms.  
  
They came to the top of the stairs and entered a large room crammed full of bunk beds. A few stray newsies sat around smoking. They regarded Spot and Ingrid with curiosity before returning to their conversation.  
  
"This is the bunkroom," Spot explained, setting Gunnar gently on an empty bed. "We's pretty fill up right now, so the two of you'll have to share a bunk for now."  
  
"That is alright," she replied, hiding the excitement of having a bed to sleep on for the first time in months.  
  
"Some of these boys have troubles stayin in one place, so another bunk's bound to open up soon. Come on, I'll give you the nickel tour." He led her around the small building, pointing out anything that he thought she might need to know. Eventually they ended up back in the bunkroom. "Why don't ya try to get some sleep? The boys'll be filin in soon, but I'll keep em quiet."  
  
Spot sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for Striker to return. All of the other boys were sleeping soundly, but the leader in him refused to rest until he was sure Striker was safe. He ventured a glance at Ingrid, sleeping peacefully across the room. Watching her steady breathing, his nerves began to calm.  
  
"Nice of ya to wait up fer me."  
  
Spot jerked his head around to find Striker standing over him. He quickly stood, although Striker still had him by at least half a foot. "Where ya been boyo? You know better than to stay out without tellin me."  
  
"I see we'se takin in strays now." Striker indicated to the pair sleeping peacefully. "That's nice of ya."  
  
Spot felt his temper flare at the sarcasm dripping from Striker's comment.  
  
"What's it to ya?" Spot shot back, louder than he intended. He lowered his voice and leaned closer. "Last I checked, I was the leader round here. It's my call. Ya got a problem with dat?"  
  
Striker shook his head and lifted himself into bed. "This girl's got ya wrapped round her finger, huh buddy boy?"  
  
Spot buried his head in his hands and dropped onto his bed. Trying to push the argument from his mind, he laid back and forced himself to sleep.  
  
Ingrid was awakened by raised voices. Her heartbeat raced for a moment until she recognized her surroundings. She closed her eyes again, trying to fall back into a deep sleep, but it was too late. She was awake and restless.  
  
Trying not to wake Gunnar, who was still sound asleep beside her, Ingrid slipped out from under the covers and moves to the window. When she discovered a fire escape leading to the roof, she quickly lifted the glass and climbed up.  
  
Spot woke with a shiver. He glanced over at the window, surprised to find it open. Occasionally, the boys would sneak out for a late smoke, but they knew better than to leave the window open behind them. Letting his leader instincts take over, he quickly scanned the room to see if anything was out of place.  
  
His heart raced when he noticed that Ingrid was no longer sleeping beside Gunnar. He crawled out of bed, grabbing his jacket before he slipped quietly out the window. 


	9. Chapter 8

"Ingrid?"  
  
Taking a deep breath, Ingrid wiped the tears from her eyes when she heard Spot walking up behind her.  
  
"What're ya doin up here? It's freezin." He removed the jacket from his shoulders and wrapped it around her.  
  
Ingrid turned slowly to face him, her eyes brimming slightly with tears. The sight broke Spot's heart. He quickly wrapped his arms around her. "Hey, what's the mattah?"  
  
"I have failed them," she mumbled into his shoulder. "I have failed them all."  
  
Ingrid cringed when she realized that she had spoken the words aloud. The warmth of his arms around her mad her head so foggy that she was unsure of anything that was happening around her.  
  
Spot squeezed her shoulders tightly, trying to keep from shivering in the cold. "Who? Who do you think that you have failed?"  
  
"Everyone," she responded, now completely unable to control the words coming out of her mouth.  
  
"Come on," Spot said, guiding her to the fire escape. "Let's getcha some place warm, then we can talk."  
  
They climbed back through the window, Spot closing it behind him. He took her hand, leading her through the room and down the stairs. He stopped when they reached a darkened room. Spot struck a match, lighting a nearby lamp. A pale light flooded around them and Ingrid quickly realized that they were in a small kitchen.  
  
Spot reached for a kettle, filling it from a small pump. "Whatta ya say to some tea?"  
  
She nodded, a small smile returning to her lips.  
  
"So ya wanna talk about is?" Spot asked, offering her a chair at a rickety table in the middle of the room.  
  
"Not particularly," she murmured.  
  
"Ingrid, you can't keep things like this bottled up. It ain't good for ya."  
  
She averted her eyes. "It is nothing, really."  
  
"Ingrid," he warned, taking on his leader tone.  
  
She laughed slightly in spite of herself. "You never give up, do you?"  
  
"That's just part of me charm," he replied with a wink, instantly lightening the mood. "So come on, out with it. What were ya talkin about up there? Who'd ya let down?"  
  
Ingrid sighed. "My father, my sister, Gunnar. Everyone."  
  
Spot furrowed his brow. "I don understand."  
  
The kettle on the stove whistled and he quickly poured them tea in dented metal cups.  
  
She took a sip before continuing. "I suppose that I must start at the beginning. My mother passed away shortly after I was born, leaving my father to raise my sister and myself. He had the best of intentions, but raising two girls was not within his abilities. So he thought it best to send us away for a proper education."  
  
"To London."  
  
She smiled. "Yes. You have a good memory."  
  
He winked again and motioned for her to continue.  
  
"Annika, my sister, did not take to boarding school. Her spirit was too wild. She craved adventure that could not be found within the walls of a school. When she was fourteen, she left." She took a steadying breath before continuing. "Years passed without any word from her. My father fell ill and I was forced to return to Norway. Soon after, Annika showed up on the doorstep... with child. Father refused to allow her back, turning her out into the streets. My father died months later, but not before making me promise him that I would find Annika and care for her as he could not."  
  
Ingrid hung her head, unsure if she was able to continue. Setting down his cup, Spot instinctively took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. She looked up at him, biting her lip before he continued.  
  
"When Father died, I didn't know where to turn. Then one day, a letter arrived from postmarked New York. I discovered that it was from Annika, so I sold everything and bought a ticket. From the moment that I landed here, I searched high and low for her. Eventually I was directed to a burlesque house in the slums. That is when I met Gunnar, her son." She had not spoken of this history to anyone and the vulnerability scared her, but she could not stop the words from pouring out of her mouth. "It soon became clear that she was sick. She begged me to take Gunnar away; to keep him safe. And so I did, only to succumb to a life on the streets."  
  
With her last words, her will was broken. Hot tears streamed uncontrollably down her cheeks and she fought to keep in sobs.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Ingrid," Spot whispered, wrapping his arms around her. He held her for a long time as she cried into his shoulder. When her tears finally subsided, he leaned back so that he could look into her eyes. "You've done right by Gunnar bringin him here. Your father and sister'd be proud. Everything's gonna be alright now.  
  
A single tear slid down her cheek and Spot reached out to catch it with his thumb. Suddenly the urge to lean forward to kiss her became unbearable. He slowly closed the distance between them, letting his lips meet hers softly.  
  
He pulled back and looked into her eyes, searching for a hint of her reaction. A sad smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "Thank you, Caleb."  
  
Spot smiled at the use of his real name. "Fer the kiss? It was my pleasure."  
  
"That's not what I meant," she teased, a genuine smile playing across her lips.  
  
"I know what you meant," he whispered, resting his forehead against hers. "You're welcome." 


	10. Chapter 9

"Watta ya say I take Gunnar sellin with me tomorrow?"  
  
Ingrid raised an eyebrow at him. "Really?"  
  
"Sure, why not? I'll teach him the fine points of bein a newsie." He cocked a half smile.  
  
She returned his grin. "I am sure that he would enjoy that."  
  
Spot checked his pocket watch in the lamplight and sighed. "It's gettin late. If I'm gonna be sellin in the mornin, I best be headin to bed."  
  
"Goodnight, Caleb," Ingrid said softly when they were back in the bunkroom. She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. "And thank you."  
  
"Sweet dreams, Ingrid." Spot watched her cross the room before gently lowering himself onto his bed. Resting his head on his arms, he stared up at Striker's bed. A broad smile crossed his face as he replayed the kiss in his mind. Eventually, he forced himself to close his eyes and get some sleep.  
  
Ingrid woke with a start the next morning. The bunkroom was buzzing with activity. Still too tired to get up, she turned on her side and watched the boys joke around as they bundled up to go outside.  
  
"Ingrid!" Before she knew what was happening, Gunnar jumped onto the bed beside her. He was dressed and ready for the day. He excitedly slipped into his Norwegian, speaking quickly.  
  
"I know that you are going to sell newspapers," she assured in a groggy voice. "But you are going to have to speak English. You understand?"  
  
The little boy nodded enthusiastically.  
  
"Gunnar, what're ya doin?" Spot called across the room. He slowly walked over and knelt beside the bed. "I told him not ta wake ya."  
  
Ingrid smiled and sat up slowly, pulling back her unruly hair. "It is alright. I was already awake."  
  
"Sorry," he said with a sheepish smile. "I guess the boys can be a little loud."  
  
"Spot, lets get a move on!"  
  
Striker's voice snagged his attention from Ingrid momentarily. He nodded absently, and then turned to Gunnar. "Ready, kid?"  
  
Gunnar nodded enthusiastically and jumped off the bed. Ingrid bit her lip nervously as she watched him file toward the door with the rest of the newsies.  
  
Spot followed her gaze for a moment, grinning. "Don't worry, beautiful. We'll take good care of him." He placed a kiss on her forehead. "You stay here and relax. Have a good day."  
  
Ingrid watched them vanish out the door before succumbing to sleep once again.  
  
"Well, ain't you cute," Striker murmured under his breath as they started toward the distribution center. He had not intended for his words to be heard, but he knew from the way that Spot's head shot up from the snowy cobblestone that they had been.  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Spot asked, his voice as bitterly cold as the wind on the street.  
  
"Aw, come on, Conlon. 'Have a nice day' and a kiss on the forehead? It's cute and all, but how long til history repeats itself?"  
  
Spot's anger boiled over as Striker spoke. He shoved his hands into his pockets to avoid closing his mouth for him.  
  
"Munchkin, commere," he commanded coolly. When the small boy arrived, Spot handed him a few coins. "You take Gunnar and buy me papes fer me alright? Striker and I'll catch up to ya."  
  
"You got it, Spot," Munchkin said, taking Gunnar's hand. "Come on, kid."  
  
When the young boys were safely out of sight, Spot turned to Striker. "You'd better watch yourself, boyo."  
  
"Me watch myself? That's rich. What about you, Spot?"  
  
Spot narrowed his eyes and moved his hand to the gold tip of the cane at his side.  
  
Observing the motion, Striker held up his hands and took a step back. "Hey, buddy boy, I ain't lookin to start a fight. I'm just watchin out fer ya."  
  
"I don't need ya to take care of me, boyo."  
  
"I was there Spot, remember?" Striker said in a low tone. "I helped ya pick up da pieces after they took Stella away. And I ain't gonna let you go through that again."  
  
Spot locked his jaw. "It ain't gonna be like that this time."  
  
"Ya sure?"  
  
Striker's simple question made him go numb. All of the anger that he held was washed away and replaced with doubt. His hand fell limply back to his side.  
  
When Spot made no response, Striker silently rested a hand on his shoulder. "Spot?"  
  
Shrugging off the hand, Spot started for the distribution center. "Let's get sellin." 


	11. Chapter 10

Spot moved through the rest of the day in a numb daze, Striker's comments still swimming around in his mind. After he sold the last of his papers, he sat on a bench in the park, absently smoking a cigarette.  
  
Munchkin, who had tagged along with Spot and Gunnar, was playing with the small boy a few feet away. Spot smiled as they threw piles of snow at each other, giggling. His smile quickly faded as his mind wandered back to his argument with Striker.  
  
Stella. Why did he have to mention her name? Not a day went by that she didn't occupy his thoughts, but saying the name aloud made it too real.  
  
"Spot, ey, ya awake?"  
  
Munchkin's voice pulled him back to reality. Taking a calming drag on his cigarette, he nodded.  
  
"I best be on my way. I'm supposed to be meetin Race to go to Sheepshead."  
  
Spot cocked a half smile and spit in his hand, extending it. "Good luck kid. Thanks fer yer help today."  
  
"No problem," Munchkin replied, tousling Gunnar's hair. "See ya kiddo."  
  
"See ya," Gunnar said awkwardly with his strong accent.  
  
"Be careful," Spot called after Munchkin as he started off down the street. Snuffing the butt of his cigarette under his boot, he turned to Gunnar. "Ready to head home?"  
  
Ingrid sat in the lobby of the lodging house, reading a newspaper that had been left behind by one of the boys. A chorus of groans rang out in the room, and Ingrid glanced over her shoulder at a group of newsies playing poker near the stove.  
  
"You cheatin again, Pokey?" Striker asked, throwing in his cards.  
  
"It's all skill my friend." Pokey adjusted his hat over his short golden blonde hair, his blue eyes sparkling.  
  
"Eh, skill my eye," Striker teased as Pokey reached across the table to collect his winnings.  
  
Ingrid smiled, turning back to her newspaper. Midway through one of the articles, the front door opened, sending a rush of cold air into the room. Spot and Gunnar quickly made their way into the room, tracking snowy footprints behind them.  
  
Gunnar launched himself onto Gunnar's lap, covering her with snow. He launched into an excited account of the day's events, his English long forgotten. Leaning against the windowsill, Spot watched Ingrid hold a hushed conversation with her nephew. He glanced up at the other boys in the room, who were staring at the pair curiously. Striker turned his gaze toward Spot, who quickly lowered his head, unwilling to meet striker's eyes.  
  
Instead, he knelt near the chair where Gunnar and Ingrid were talking. "He's a pretty good newsie."  
  
"Well he certainly enjoyed himself," she replied, her cool blue eyes sparkling as Gunnar squirmed off her lap.  
  
Spot smiled genuinely, watching Gunnar study the poker game curiously. Spot was suddenly drawn to glance at Striker, who was staring disapprovingly over his cards.  
  
Ingrid watched as Spot shifted, suddenly seeming rather uncomfortable. "Are you alright?"  
  
Her question had been soft and innocent, but suddenly Spot felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He vaguely felt her hand rest on his shoulder, but he ignored it, standing quickly.  
  
"I've gotta get outta here," he mumbled, backing blindly out onto the street.  
  
Ingrid stared at the open door in silent confusion. His mood had changed so drastically since that morning that she was having trouble keeping up.  
  
Spot wandered aimlessly through the streets of Brooklyn. Raising a cigarette to his mouth with a shaky hand, he tried to regain his composure. What had possessed him to storm out of the lodging house like that? He shook his head, still reeling from Striker's cold gaze. He cursed himself for letting Striker get to him.  
  
Ever since their argument on the streets that afternoon, Spot's confidence had been shaken. He hated that he had begun to doubt himself and more importantly the feelings that he had for Ingrid.  
  
Ingrid. Thinking about her brought a smile to his face. It faded when Striker's words ran through his head. 'How long til history repeats itself?'  
  
Jack had told him once that if you don't learn from your mistakes, you are doomed to repeat them. Spot sighed. Why was it that he never seemed to learn, especially when it came to love?  
  
When his parents died, he vowed never to open his heart to anyone again. For 14 years, that theory had served him well. His icy demeanor had earned him the respect of all the newsies and the leadership of Brooklyn. The revered Spot Conlon.  
  
He scoffed and tossed his cigarette aside. If they only knew.  
  
"Spot, what ya doin standin out in the cold?" Munchkin appeared, his arms wrapped around himself.  
  
"Just gettin a little air, kid. How was the tracks?"  
  
"Got myself enough to buy a few cigars." He produced three cigars, displaying them proudly.  
  
Spot smiled. Munchkin was so much like Race sometimes that it was uncanny. "Come on, it's gettin late. Let's head back before we get locked out." 


	12. Chapter 11

Ingrid awoke before any of the boys the next morning. Careful not to wake Gunnar, she crawled out of bed and made her way onto the roof. She stopped short when she realized that Spot was standing across the room, his back to her. She had been asleep when he returned and she had no real desire to confront him after his actions the night before.  
  
Spot took another drag on his cigarette. The cold wind blew, carrying the smoke away quickly. He didn't even flinch as the cold air blew through his thin jacket. He had been on the roof since long before sunrise and he no longer felt the cold.  
  
Unable to sleep, he had crawled up onto the roof. Images of his parents and Stella swam around in his head whenever he closed his eyes. And he couldn't bear the emotions that those images conjured up.  
  
And then there was Ingrid. Even keeping his eyes open could not keep her from his mind. He felt pangs of guilt for walking out on her, but Striker's words kept repeating in his mind. Would she understand? After hours of consideration, he concluded that, despite his feelings for her, distancing himself from Ingrid was for the best.  
  
Hearing footsteps behind him, he straightened and turned slowly. His heart skipped slightly when he saw Ingrid standing before him.  
  
"Good morning," he said hoarsely, his voice suddenly failing him.  
  
She regarded him silently and moved to lean on the half-wall of the roof. Spot sighed and moved beside her, offering a cigarette.  
  
Ingrid took it from him, trying to hide her eagerness. It had been weeks since she had had a cigarette and the temptation was too great. He lit it for her and she quickly breathed in a smooth stream of smoke.  
  
Watching Ingrid enjoy the cigarette, Spot felt his stomach tie in knots. All his determinations to distance himself from her melted away when they were in close proximity. He reached out and took her hand. "Sorry bout last night."  
  
Taking another drag, she glanced up at him. Exhaling, she shook her head in defeat, a smile creeping across her lips. It was hard to stay angry at him when looking into those grey-green eyes. Her resolve quickly crumbled.  
  
Returning her smile, Spot wrapped his arms around her from behind. "Whatcha gonna do today?"  
  
Ingrid leaned back against her chest and shrugged. "Since you are taking care of Gunnar, I thought that I would search for a job."  
  
"Ya that anxious ta get outta here?" he asked softly, leaning close to her ear.  
  
She glanced up and quickly pulled herself out of his arms. Confused, Spot followed her gaze until he saw Striker standing by the fire escape, glaring disapprovingly.  
  
When he saw Spot and Ingrid embracing on the roof, he tossed his unlit cigarette aside in disgust. When was this boy gonna learn? "The boys're ready to go."  
  
Spot nodded. "I'll be right in."  
  
When Striker had vanished back down the fire escape, Ingrid leaned against the wall. "Obviously not everyone wants us here as much as you do."  
  
"Ingrid--"  
  
"Go," she interrupted. "The boys are waiting for you."  
  
He kissed her gently on the cheek before starting back to the bunkroom.  
  
"Spot."  
  
Selling his final paper to a businessman hurrying through the cold, Spot tried to ignore Striker's call as best he could.  
  
"Spot. You can't ignore me forever," Striker called drawing near.  
  
Spot moved to Gunnar, who was selling a few feet down the street. "How's the sellin going little man?"  
  
Gunnar held up two papers, all that was left of the stack that Spot had given him.  
  
"We gotta talk, buddy boy," Striker said, grabbing Spot's arm. "Can ya ditch the kid?"  
  
"Ditch the kid?" he asked in shock, pulling his arm fee. "No I can't ditch him, Striker. He ain't old enough to be out here on his own. Whatever ya got to day ta me, ya say it in front of him or wait til later."  
  
Striker rolled his eyes. "See I would wait, but it seems lately that when ya ain't with the kid, ya can't keep yer hands off his mama."  
  
Unable to control his temper, Spot grabbed Striker by the collar and shoved him against the building. "You had better watch yourself, boyo. Ya don't know what you're talkin bout."  
  
Striker smiled slightly at Spot's outburst of anger. This was the Spot he knew, the Great Brooklyn leader that he was proud to call his friend. Glancing over Spot's shoulder, he saw Gunnar staring at them in shock. He motioned with his chin and Spot turned his head.  
  
When Spot saw the fear in Gunnar's eyes as he watched the argument, he released Striker and took a calming step back. "Get outta here."  
  
Striker straightened his jacket and stalked off down the street.  
  
Spot watched him vanish around the corner before kneeling beside Gunnar. "Come on, lets get those last papers sold."  
  
Heading back to the lodging house after they had finished selling, Spot tried to forget about Striker and relax. He stretched as they walked, loosening muscles that had been unconsciously tensed for days. Cocking his head to the side, he strained the muscles in his neck. With his head tilted to the side, he caught sight of a sign handing overhead. Fifth Street Orphanage. He cringed as he read the words, unable to stop the flood of images that flooded into his mind. By now, they were images that he knew all too well: Stella, lying on the bunk, sleeping peacefully; her beautiful smile as she watched the clouds over Central Park. Then finally came the memory that he dreaded the most, the one that haunted him for over a year. The day they came to take her away. He closed his eyes tight, but there was no stopping it. Flashed of images played over and over in his mind, set to the soundtrack of steady sobs.  
  
Suddenly, his eyes jerked open. There was something different this time around. He noticed something that he had never remembered before. Striker. He was holding Spot back, keeping him from going after her.  
  
Spot was pulled from his thoughts by Gunnar pulling at his arm. "What is wrong?"  
  
"Nothin, kid," Spot lied, mustering a fake smile. "Let's getcha back to your aunt."  
  
Spot felt a sudden need to find Stella, no matter what the consequences, and he had to do it quickly. Striker had intercepted any of his efforts before and Spot was determined not to let him get in the way.  
  
"Ey, Spot, how was the sellin?" Pokey asked as they entered the bunkroom.  
  
Spot quickly scanned the room, slightly deflated when he didn't see Ingrid. "Alright I guess. Is Striker here?"  
  
"He just stepped out ta buy some cigarettes, should be back soon," Pokey said, shuffling his cards absently. "Whatcha need him for?"  
  
Spot mentally cursed, waiting for Ingrid meant a run in with Striker and that was the last thing that he needed. "Listen, Pokey, can you watch the kid till Ingrid gets back? I got somethin I gotta take care of."  
  
"Yeah sure. Commere kid, I'll teach ya ta play pokah."  
  
Satisfied, Spot started for the door. Once outside, he stopped on the steps to light a calming cigarette. When he looked up, he groaned.  
  
Striker had come around the corner and was blocking his path. "Where ya goin, buddy boy? You and I still need to talk."  
  
"I ain't got nothing to say to you, boyo," Spot said harshly, pushing passed him. "Sides, I got some business to attend to."  
  
"What business?" Striker asked, pulling Spot by the arm. "You're goin to find her, ain't ya?"  
  
Spot loosed his arm and pushed Striker back. "So what if I am? Ya ain't gonna stop me this time."  
  
"Oh I see. You're blamin me for what happened. I wasn't the one who took her away, Spot. But it was for the best. You ain't yourself when she's around."  
  
Spot's anger was boiling up in him, but he forced to hold it back. "That ain't for you to decide, boyo."  
  
"Face it, Spot, Stella ain't part of your life anymore. The sooner ya learn that, the easier life will get fer ya."  
  
Spot shook his head. "I lover her, Striker. And whether I see her or not, she's a part of me and I ain't gonna give that up."  
  
"Are ya telling me that you'd choose Stella over me, or any of the boys in there?" Striker asked, pushing Spot against the building.  
  
Trying desperately to keep his temper in check, Spot replied coolly "In a heartbeat."  
  
"What about your precious Ingrid? How do you think she'll react when you tell her about Stella?"  
  
"She'll understand," Spot said firmly, pushing Striker off of him and walking away.  
  
"You sure about that, buddy boy?" 


	13. Chapter 12

Ingrid was returning to the lodging house in high spirits when she heard voices in the street. She looked up just in time to see Spot push Striker away and take off down the street. Striker cursed and took off around the corner, leaving Ingrid alone on the cold street, very confused.  
  
Moving into the lodging house to avoid the cold, she walked over to the poker table in the corner of the lobby.  
  
Gunnar looked up from his cards. "Ingrid, Pokey is teaching me poker."  
  
"I see that," Ingrid said, ruffling his hair with a smile.  
  
Pokey looked up shyly. "Spot asked me to watch him. Poker was the only thing that I could think that would make him sit still. I hope that's alright."  
  
"It is fine," she said softly. "Would you mind watching him a bit longer while I go wash up?"  
  
"No problem." Pokey flashed her a grin. "I'll even keep the boys down here fer ya."  
  
Ingrid stood in the washroom, relieved as the dirt washed off her face and down the drain. Grabbing a forgotten deck of cards, she sat by the window. She began a quiet game of solitaire, enjoying the privacy after the chaos of living in the lodging house.  
  
Hours later, when he had calmed his nerves, Striker returned to the bunk house.  
  
"Hey Striker, where's Spot?"  
  
Completely ignoring Pokey's question, Striker stalked toward the stairs. Pokey stood from the card game and blocked his path. "Ingrid's up there. I told her that I'd keep all the boys down here."  
  
"Good for you kid," Striker said, pushing him aside before continuing up the stairs.  
  
Ingrid jumped when the door creaked open behind her. She quickly turned to see Striker leaning against the doorframe. "You and I need to have a little talk."  
  
Ingrid shifted uncomfortably, the harsh tone in his voice shaking her resolve.  
  
"I want you and yer little brat out of here before nightfall," Striker said firmly, standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
She stood up to him, her full height nearly a foot shorter than the newsie, but she was not dissuaded. "Excuse me?"  
  
"I have worked long and hard to get Spot to where he is today an I can't afford a pretty little thing like you around distractin him. Although I can't say that I blame him."  
  
He reached out a hand to touch Ingrid and she slapped it away. "We're not going anywhere. And you would be wise to keep your hands to yourself."  
  
"Ya think that I can't get rid of you, well you've got another thing comin, girlie. I can take care of you just like I did Stella." As he spoke, he backed her against the wall, bracing a hand on either side of her. "He was doin just fine forgettin about her til you came along. Now he's runnin all over Brooklyn lookin for her."  
  
"Stella?" She asked, too confused to worry about his actions.  
  
"You didn't really think that you were the first, did ya?" he asked, leaning closer, running a hand down her side until it came to rest above her hip. "Though, I have to admit, it's gonna be a lot harder to see you go."  
  
When the shock wore off, her senses came to life and she realized what was happening. She tried to free herself from his grasp, but he was much stronger and he held her firmly against the wall. Panic began to set in. "Stop!"  
  
Spot returned to the lodging house, unable to control the smile that spread across his face. After an hour of searching, he had finally found her. His Stella.  
  
He walked through the door, surprised to find Gunnar still playing poker. His elation was quickly replaced by mild fear. "Is Ingrid not back yet?"  
  
"Nah, she's here. Upstairs," Pokey replied, not looking up from his cards.  
  
Spot sighed in relief, but a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. A muffled cry came from the bunkroom. The boys playing poker all jumped, their cards dropping to the table.  
  
"Who's up there with her?" Spot asked quickly, trying to put the pieces together in his head.  
  
"Striker," Pokey replied quietly. "He got in about ten minutes ago."  
  
Before Pokey could even finish his sentence, Spot started for the stairs, calling down after him. "Pokey, get Gunnar outta here. Take him to Manhattan; I'll be right behind ya."  
  
Pokey nodded and quickly headed out the door, dragging Gunnar behind him.  
  
Spot pushed his way through the closed door, shocked to find Striker pushing Ingrid against the wall. "What the hell do ya think you're doin boyo?"  
  
"Ey, Spotty boy, how was your visit?" Striker asked, not moving from his position in front of Ingrid.  
  
His anger boiling over, Spot darted across the room, pushing Striker away from Ingrid and onto the floor. "Keep your hands off of her."  
  
Finally free of Striker's roaming hands, Ingrid slumped against the wall.  
  
"Get out," Spot said, taking deep breaths to calm himself. "I don't ever wanna see ya in the lodging house again."  
  
"Aw, come on Spot. She's just a girl. Ya gonna let her get between us?" Striker asked coolly, picking himself up off the ground.  
  
"You've ruined too many lives around here, boyo. I ain't gonna let it happen again, not to her." He clenched his jaw. "Out."  
  
Striker narrowed his eyes. "You can't do this, Spot. I made you who you are. If it weren't for me, you'd be nothin more than a weepy kid."  
  
Spot rolled his eyes. "If it weren't for you, Stella would still be here, safe with me."  
  
"It was for your own good, buddy boy. She was dragging you down. Just like this whore and her little brat."  
  
Spot's anger got the best of him and he threw his fists at Striker. He poured his anger into his punches, connecting with his face and stomach. Eventually, Striker succumbed to Spot's fists and collapsed onto the floor.  
  
Spot squatted beside him, wiping the blood that was trickling slowly from his lip, a result of Striker's one connected blow. "Out."  
  
When Striker had limped out of the room, Spot moved to Ingrid, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"  
  
She sat, staring blankly at the opposite wall, still in shock.  
  
"Come on," Spot said, helping her to her feet. "Let's get ya someplace safe."  
  
As Spot led her through the lobby, the boys stared at them in confusion after seeing Striker's condition when he left.  
  
"We'se goin to Manhattan fer awhile. I'm sendin Pokey back with instructions and while I'm gone, he's in charge. Got it?"  
  
"Sure thing, Spot," Munchkin replied, coming to the front of the group.  
  
The cold air on the street began to slowly pull Ingrid out of her state of shock. Striker's words began to sink in and she felt a sudden need for explanation. "Do you love her?"  
  
"Who?" Spot asked, surprised by the sound of her voice in the silence.  
  
"Stella. Do you still love Stella?" Ingrid whispered.  
  
Spot stopped cold. He knew that he eventually needed to explain the situation to Ingrid, he just didn't want to add to the stress of the night. He tried to think of a way to avoid the question, but one look into her eyes and he knew that the truth needed to come out. "Yes, I do."  
  
Ingrid's shoulders fell, tears welling in her eyes. Determined not to let him see her weakness, she turned her back to him. "I see."  
  
"Ingrid, it's not what you think," he began, resting a hand on her shoulder.  
  
"It's alright, Caleb. Gunnar and I will be out of your way then."  
  
"Please don't leave," Spot said softly, forcing her to turn and face him. "I love you too much to see you leave."  
  
She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. "I don't understand. How can you love two women at once?"  
  
"Come with me," he said, offering his hand. "I'll show ya." 


	14. Chapter 13

"Back so soon, Caleb?"  
  
Spot smiled at the older woman that greeted the as the entered the orphanage. "Good evening, Mrs. Stevens."  
  
"Who is this lovely young lady?" Mrs. Stevens asked, glancing at Ingrid.  
  
"This is Ingrid. I was hoping to introduce her to Stella. Is she still awake?"  
  
"Sure, come this way," Mrs. Stevens said sweetly, ushering them through the large archway into another room.  
  
As they entered the large living room, a small girl with loose sandy blonde curls bounded up to them, leaping into Spot's arms.  
  
"Hey beautiful," he said, lifting her easily, kissing her gently on the cheek.  
  
He approached Ingrid, who was standing silently beside Mrs. Stevens in the archway. "Ingrid, I'd like you to meet Stella. My daughter."  
  
Ingrid's eyes grew wide and she felt as though her legs had been pulled out from beneath her. His daughter? She had slowly acclimated herself to the thought of another woman in Spot's life, but a daughter?  
  
Spot watched her reaction, his heart falling at the shock that filled her features. Masking his disappointment, he turned back to Stella. Her head was resting on his shoulder, her grey eyes falling shut. "I guess we should be getting you to bed, little lady."  
  
"She was on her way," Mrs. Stevens jumped in. "Before her daddy came back to get her all riled up."  
  
Spot smiled shyly. "Sorry about that. So you mind if I help you put her to bed?"  
  
"Sure. Follow me."  
  
When Spot and Mrs. Stevens vanished up the stairs, Ingrid blindly made her was outside, suddenly in need of fresh air.  
  
Spot watched Stella slip into a peaceful sleep after he set her down. Running a hand lightly over her loose curls. How could he have ever let her go?  
  
"Caleb?"  
  
Spot became aware that Mrs. Stevens was standing behind him. Careful not to wake Stella, he stood from the bed and followed the older woman into the hall. He stared at the sleeping child through the open door. "What would it take for me to bring her home with me?"  
  
"A new life," Mrs. Stevens replied with a sweet sigh. "A newsboys lodging house is no place to raise a child, Caleb. You must know that."  
  
He tried to be angry, but it was no use. Mrs. Stevens was right. He just didn't want her to be. "So that is it, isn't it?"  
  
"Not necessarily," she said softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Who knows what the future will bring. You will not be a newsie forever, and Stella isn't going anywhere."  
  
"So it is still possible?" Spot suddenly felt a glimmer of hope.  
  
"Yes, someday. But we'll cross that bridge when we get there. For now, you are welcome here anytime that you like."  
  
"Count on it," Spot said, smiling broadly. "Thank you, Mrs. Stevens."  
  
"I met Stella's mother when I was seventeen."  
  
Ingrid jumped when Spot appeared behind her. Removing his jacket, he placed it around her shoulders before taking a seat on the step beside her.  
  
"We were young and foolish and thought we were in love." He sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "The next thing I knew, I was going to be a father."  
  
Ingrid bit her bottom lip, waiting for him to continue, but he only sat in silence beside her. "What happened?"  
  
"She was too young," he replied, his voice hoarse. "We knew that from the get go. It was a risk that she wanted to take, so who was I to question that?"  
  
He took a deep, staggering breath. "After Stella was born, there were complications."  
  
"Oh," Ingrid said softly. He didn't need to say anything else. When it came to having babies, complications usually meant one thing: death.  
  
"I thought that I could raise Stella on my own," he continued, staring off into the snowy street. He was unable to stop now, even if he wanted to. "What could be better than growing up in a lodging house? Apparently someone didn't agree. When she was four months old, they came and took her away. I didn't see her again until today."  
  
Ingrid's heart sank when she caught sight of tears falling down his cheeks. Hesitantly, she reached across the distance that separated them, taking his hand gently. So he had a daughter. It wasn't important anymore. What was important was that she make him feel as comfortable as possible.  
  
"She's nearly two now, walking and talking. And I have missed it all." He visibly broke down, the pent up emotion from two years bubbling to the surface.  
  
The pair sat in silence on the steps for a long time. Ingrid tried as best she could to comfort him. She was taken aback by the Brooklyn newsie breaking down before her eyes. She had not been around the newsies long, but she had heard enough about the great Spot Conlon to be surprised by the raw show of emotion.  
  
When he had finally calmed himself, he looked down at her hand, holding his firmly. A pang of guilt suddenly hit him. "I should have told you from the beginning. I'm sorry."  
  
"Eh, you'll owe me." She cracked a smile.  
  
That was all that Spot needed to relax. A broad smile spread across his features and he began to chuckle. "What a night we have had, huh?"  
  
"I suppose that you could say that." Ingrid began laughing as well. Everything that had happened that night was so unreal that laughter seemed as logical as anything else.  
  
"Well, I suppose that we should get ya to Manhattan. Gunnar's waitin for ya there."  
  
Ingrid frowned slightly, remembering her earlier threat to leave. She sat silently on the step while Spot stood and started down the street.  
  
He hadn't gotten far when he realized that she was not beside him. The frown on her face made his smile fall slightly. He moved back to the steps. "What's the mattah?"  
  
"Are you that anxious to be rid of me?" she asked softly.  
  
He sighed and knelt before her.  
  
"No," he replied hoarsely. "If it were up to me, you two'd stay in Brooklyn with me, but with Striker around, it's too dangerous. It'll be safer fer ya in Manhattan. Jack and his boys'll take good care of ya."  
  
She nodded and stood reluctantly. "I'd rather stay with you."  
  
"I know." He took her hand and led her down the street. "Don't worry, I'll be by to visit as often as I can."  
  
"You'd better."  
  
They walked to Manhattan hand in hand, Spot's free hand resting anxiously on the tip of his cane. 


	15. Chapter 14

"I gotta warn ya," Spot said, stopping just outside the Duane Street lodging house. "Jack runs Manhattan a bit differently than Brooklyn."  
  
"How so?" she asked, momentarily nervous about going in.  
  
"You'll see." He winked before pulling her inside.  
  
As soon as they were inside, Ingrid understood Spot's warning. They stood unnoticed near the door, watching the group joke and dance to the music from a small Italian boy playing the harmonica in the corner. Spot was right; things were definitely different in Manhattan. The air of seriousness that hung over Brooklyn didn't exist here. While a few of the boys were well built, most seemed smaller and weaker than the newsies that she was accustomed to. Ingrid immediately felt at ease among them.  
  
The harmonica suddenly stopped and the Italian called across the room. "Ey Jack, Brooklyn's here!"  
  
Jack and Pokey sat in the corner, holding a hushed conversation, the only somber members of the group. Jack's head shot up, and he smiled when he saw the couple standing in the doorway.  
  
"Spot, where ya been?" Pokey reprimanded. "I was beginnin to think that Striker'd gotten the best of ya."  
  
"You know better than that, Pokey. We just had to make a little stop on our way over."  
  
"This beautiful lady must be Ingrid," Jack said, eyeing her as he crossed the room. "Jack Kelley at your service."  
  
Spot shook his head, snaking an arm around Ingrid's waist. For a moment, he began to reconsider his decision to leave Ingrid with Jack. He was a womanizer, make no mistake, but he trusted him. "Watch yourself, boyo."  
  
Jack laughed. "Just checking, Conlon. Come on, Gunnar's asleep upstairs."  
  
A few stray newsies lazed around the bunkroom, eyeing the group curiously as they entered. Ingrid breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Gunnar sleeping peacefully on a bunk in the corner. She moved across the room, taking a seat on the bunk beside his sleeping form. Jack cleared the other boys out of the room.  
  
Spot pulled Pokey aside. "Get yourself back to Brooklyn, boyo. I need ya to watch over the boys. You get them goin in the morning. No one goes out alone, sell in pairs."  
  
"You got it, Spot."  
  
"Pokey." Spot pulled him closer. "You know what to do if you see Striker?"  
  
"We've got it covered." Pokey nodded and headed for the stairs.  
  
"Be careful, Pokey."  
  
Spot hung his head, nervous for Pokey's journey back to Brooklyn. Jack's hand settled on his shoulder and Spot sighed. "Don't say it Jacky Boy."  
  
"Say what?" Jack asked innocently.  
  
Spot looked him in the eye. "I told you so?"  
  
"I wasn't sayin a word," Jack replied with a smirk.  
  
They stood in silence for a moment, watching Ingrid running a hand over Gunnar's hair.  
  
"I saw Stella today," Spot said softly. "I finally found her."  
  
"Good for you, Spot. It's about time."  
  
"Jack, I'm thinking about leaving."  
  
Jack furrowed his brow in confusion. "You heading back to Brooklyn?"  
  
"Not leaving here," Spot said with a smile, returning his eyes to Jack's. "Leavin the newsies."  
  
Jack stared at him incredulously. "You're kiddin, right? How can you give this up?"  
  
"Jack, I'm nineteen and I have a daughter to be concerned with." He took a deep breath. "They're never gonna let me keep Stella as long as I'm livin this way."  
  
"Who ya gonna leave in charge?"  
  
Spot smirked. "I was thinking Pokey, though with all the time that he spends with your boys, there's a good chance Brooklyn'll turn into a madhouse like this place."  
  
"Watch yourself, Conlon. You ain't in Brooklyn right now," Jack teased, pleased to see the softer side of Spot reemerging after years of somber coolness. "When ya leavin?"  
  
"Leaving?"  
  
Spot spun around to find Ingrid standing directly behind him, her eyes narrowed in confusion.  
  
"Why don't you two talk? I'll be waiting downstairs." Jack tipped his hat and disappeared down the stairs.  
  
"You're leaving?" Ingrid asked again when they were alone.  
  
"No," he said quickly, but shook his head. "Well, yes, but-"  
  
"Which is it, yes or no?"  
  
Spot took her hands in his and led her to an empty bunk. "I am not going anywhere."  
  
"But you just told Jack-"  
  
"I am leaving the newsies... So that I can get Stella back."  
  
Ingrid smiled and leaned up to kiss him lightly. Spot caught her lips, pulling him into a deeper kiss. The softness of her lips on his made him melt. She began to lean closer to him, but he pulled back slightly.  
  
"I'm not goin anywhere," he repeated. "I love you." 


End file.
